Pick your Poison
by cjborange
Summary: When Haymitch Abernathy is reaped for the Second Quarter Quell, he knows the difficult weeks ahead are going to be anything but easy. In the gorgeous arena where everything natural is deadly, how will he and his friend Maysilee be able to survive?
1. Beginnings and Endings

**A/N: I know this has been done a million times before, but this idea has been swimming around in my head for the better part of a week and I just had to hammer it out. I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know if you want to see more :D**

Most people my age, when they don't know what to do, when they feel like the world has just randomly decided to stop liking them, go to their mom or dad. Maybe an older brother or sister. A grandparent. Aunt. Uncle. Maybe even a goldfish. They might even knock on a neighbor's door. Not me. Whenever I'm having trouble I always go to Esther. She always helps me sort myself out. Which is why I'm feeling especially nervous to break the news to her.

I drop slowly out of bed and slip into my boots, supple leather that's molded to my feet over the years. Nobody in the Seam has enough money for new shoes. As far as I'm aware my Grandpa Sooty wore these boots when he was a teenager like me. Not bothering to change, I hurry out of the bedroom and slip out the door.

I don't wake my mother before I leave just because I know how worried she'd be if she knew I was out and about on the Monday. _The _Monday. The day that peacekeepers are patrolling the streets three times as intently because rebellion springs up in the districts more than ever the week of the reaping. Not to mention their rewards for capturing rebels are far higher this time of year.

My sprint to Esther's house takes me within feet of the tall metal fence encircling District 12. In school we're always taught about the fence. It's designed to keep animals out, bla bla bla. Its curved structure somehow protects us from the dangers of the outside. But that fools nobody. There's nothing in those woods that a peacekeeper's gun couldn't take down.

I suddenly stop dead in my tracks, because there are alien footsteps. A dark worm of dread settles in my gut and terror trills through my veins, and I duck into the alleyway between two short slum houses, panting heavily. Do I take another peek? Do I dare?

Suddenly I can't control myself and I allow myself a short glance out of the alleyway.

"What're you doing down there, Haymitch?"

The crash of relief is so intense I actually let out a laugh.

"Really, what brings you out here?" Mr. Pick asks, holding out a helping hand. "The sun's hardly up in the sky."

"Nothing." He helps me to my feet. Mr. Pick's worn the same burlap apron every single day as far back as I can remember, and by now it's frayed or torn or patched virtually everywhere.

He raises his eyebrows. "Seriously kid, it's dangerous to be out this early. If a peacekeeper finds you, you're toast. Now skedaddle."

I turn to sprint away, but a low, gruff voice makes me pause dead in my tracks.

"What is this?" the peacekeeper shouts.

I whip around and find myself face-to-face with Peacekeeper Bristel, the head peacekeeper of District 12. Nobody without suicidal tendencies ever comes anywhere close to him. His eyes are as cold as ice and his mouth is set in a way that tells everybody he means serious business. Really serious business.

"Answer me or I'll shoot!" Bristel repeats. "Minors out before seven without an adult are punishable in the highest regard. Explain yourself!"

"He was with me," Mr. Pick says.

"You're lying," Bristel barks. "You've not got a wife and I know this kid. Abernathy, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

Bristel chuckles, humming smugly to himself. "Abernathy, Abernathy. I've got more than just a bone or two to pick with you. It turns out the fingerprints on that stolen bread didn't come from nowhere, did they?"

It's as though I've been punched in the gut. I'd gone through every effort not to get caught in that scheme. I hate stealing from my friends and neighbors but it's literally the only way to survive in these parts of 12. Everyone here is out for themselves. We'll do anything to survive, live, gain another day.

I eye Mr. Pick, hoping he understands I've got this under control.

All I do is reach into my pocket and pull out the gold locket. Bought from the merchant's area for an entire month's salary. My mom would kill me if she knew where all of my salary was really going, but I have to give Esther something substantial to remind her of me after I leave.

Bristel laughs. "And I suppose that was stolen too? I'll get a pretty handsome load of cash for turning you in."

But I know how greedy these peacekeepers are and I know this is my only chance of escape. I hold the locket close to his face, and he stares greedily at the gold before finally snatching it out of my hand. He turns it over a few times, grinning. Then he stares back at me and his gaze turns back to ice.

"Get out of my sight."

I don't wait for him to change his mid.

* * *

Esther is a girl who likes to kiss. Really likes to kiss. The kind of kiss where it feels like she's trying to pull your face off.

"I need… to tell you something," I choke out.

"Just five more minutes," she says, pressing her lips against mine for the millionth time.

"I've been thinking…."

That makes her pull away. "What?" she demands.

"I've been thinking that… maybe we should break up."

Esther looks more than a little peeved. "What? Why?"

"My mom just got this big promotion. For being extra cooperative in the mines or something, I dunno. We might be moving to the merchant's district sooner than later."

"So you think we should break up?" Her eyebrows twitch, and flecks of spit fly from her mouth. "Well, I think we should break up!" She storms into her bedroom. "Bye, bye, see you later, won't be missing you."

The thing that's always confused me most about girls is the way they can go from adoring somebody more than life itself to hating them in five seconds. That, and the way they form impenetrable chat circles. But that's irrelevant.

* * *

"Haymitch! Over here! I saved you a seat!"

Carlo holds up his hand, smiling. I smile back and walk over the table, sitting down on the old wooden chair that probably hasn't been replaced since the Dark Days. Carlo's just as thin as everybody else in District 12, and he's so tall and lanky that he looks like a scarecrow. Lunch started five minutes ago and he's already devoured his small helping of cheese and bread.

"So I heard you and Esther broke up," Carlo says.

I nod. "I just didn't think we were working out. And besides, you know that I might be moving…"

"Hey, Carlo, you look great today," someone says.

Maysilee Donner is literally the prettiest girl I've ever seen and that's saying something. Her long, golden-blonde hair tumbles in waves down her back and her skin is as clear as porcelain.

"You look fine, Maysilee," Carlo says. "How've the flowers been?"

"The usual," she says, making a face. "The coal dust keeps killing them. One or two lilies managed to blossom, though. Precious ones, those were. We could've made ourselves millionaires by charging the neighbors to come see them."

"Ahem!" a different voice coughs.

It's Esther. And she's not happy.

"So you think she's pretty, do you?" Esther fumes. "Come on, answer me."

"I guess so," I respond. "I already told you, we're done for. I'm sorry. It was nice knowing you and being your boyfriend. But I don't really have a choice."

"_Don't really have a choice!_" Esther repeats mockingly.

"Calm down, Esther!" Maysilee warns. "What's this all about?"

The two girls start away bickering. Then it's just me and Carlo and the rest of the staring cafeteria. The cafeteria is even more silent than they normally are when they're staring. Everyone is quieter around games time. And everyone is even quieter when a Quarter Quell is coming up.

"Any thoughts on the twist?" I ask quietly, deciding to change the subject.

"Don't talk about the games in here," Carlo, says, shivering. "But, if you don't mind me asking… how many times is your name in this year?"

I have to count. At the age of sixteen I have a total of five entries by default. Ten extra entries for the tesserae I've taken for myself and my mother makes fifteen.

Carlo says he has twenty-four, and I don't know how to respond. I don't know how to do anything but apologize and tell him how bad I feel for him.

Carlo shrugs. "It's just a fact of life in Panem. Nothing to say or do about it."

"Yanno, I really like you," I say, finishing my crust of bread. "Who's your partner for the history project?"

"Rachel Hansel," he answers, making a face. "You?"

"Maysilee."

"Lucky," he sneers. There are a few moments of silence and then the lunch bell rings.

"They'll be announcing the twist tomorrow, right? The day before the reaping?" Carlo asks.

I nod slowly, sadly. "Good luck, Carlo."

"Good luck, Haymitch."

We go our separate ways.


	2. Tears of Terror

The thing that creeps me most about the morning of the reaping is how quiet it is. No hustle and bustle of heavy footsteps outside. No kids crying from hunger. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

"Ready for breakfast?" Mom asks, starting into the kitchen in her newly-patched apron. "I've got a surprise for you."

I nod silently, and she disappears into the pantry. She comes back a minute later carrying an entire loaf of bread. She's on the other side of the house but the buttery aroma makes my mouth flood with saliva. For several moments I'm stunned into silence.

"Where'd you get that?" I finally find the voice to say, incredulous.

"From Mrs. Landers. She burnt a batch of bread and left all of the blackened loaves outside for people to take. This was the last one she had."

"God bless her."

Mom nods slowly in agreement, then sits down on the couch, letting out the groan I've heard her make every day of my life. My usual reaping nerves must be nothing compared to what she's experiencing.

"Don't worry," I say. It's a hollow attempt at reassurance, but I figure it's better than nothing. "I'm not going to get reaped."

"Double the tributes, though," Mom says, almost tearing up. "I can't lose you. I'd die if anything happened to you."

I'm just about to give her a hug when she walks slowly out of the room. At first I hear the slightest of sniffles, and then the gasping and shaking of a torrent of tears. I consider trying to comfort her, but decide against it. Sometimes people just need to be alone.

* * *

"How's it hanging?" Carlo asks as we step into the line together. Of course, he knows exactly how it's hanging, and so do I. It's as though a thick mist has settled over the district, even stronger than the usual cloud of coal dust if that's even possible. But this kind of fog weighs down on the spirit, not the lungs.

"Fine," I lie. "Tired, though. I stayed up all night finishing the history project."

"Next!" the peacekeeper shouts from up ahead. A thin, meek-looking twelve year-old scampers out of line, and my feet move me a few feet forward.

I rock slightly back and forth, my stomach leaping inside of me. A cold sweat cakes my forehead, growing thicker and colder whenever the line moves. Finally, Carlo and I reach the front.

"Finger," he growls.

I hold out the finger and all I feel is a sharp trill of pain before it's all over. He smears the red splotch onto a small white card. I know Carlo is terrified of needles, and I pat him on the back when the needle enters his finger and his face crinkles up. The last thing we need is more terror.

Carlo and I sprint off together, in complete silence this time, both too terrified for words.

* * *

It feels like a million years have passed before Midnight Lacie steps onto stage, garbled stupidly in a long black gown scattered with gold sequins.

"She looks like a cow," Carlo whispers.

The nearest peacekeeper shoots us a nasty look when we both burst out laughing.

Midnight gives a not-so-short introductory remark and then steps to the side. Suddenly a holographic screen shimmers into existence and the video about the Dark Days starts playing. It's the first time true, visceral terror sets in. Like a rabid animal in my gut. Wrenching, squirming. Me and all of the other boys are trembling like leaves. My feet shake and little fleeting shivers run down my spine. I think back to yesterday's cafeteria incident with Maysilee and Esther. It's terrifying to think that was just yesterday, but it's even more terrifying to think that four of the kids in that cafeteria are going to be gone tomorrow and chances are very good they aren't going to be coming back.

The mayor of District 12 comes onto stage next, reading off of a note card in the most robotic voice I've ever heard. This is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks, he intones.

"And now for the moment you've all been waiting for!" Midnight Lacie squeals, clapping her hands over her head. "The time to select four of you lot to represent District 12 in the second Quarter Quell! Who's excited?"

Dead silence.

"Let's try that again. Who's excited?"

A kid I recognize bursts into tears. Fortunately, Midnight doesn't press it any further. She zips toward the girls' reaping bowl and draws a single slip of paper. The girls across the square are crying or hugging or squirming or just staring at the stage with wide, tired eyes.

"Maysilee Donner!"

My initial reaction is shock, the kind of shock that overshadows any other emotion your brain can conjure. Maysilee. Maysilee Donner is going into the Hunger Games. The crowd parts to create a circular clearing around the trembling girl, as though her misfortune is a disease they might catch. Two of her friends rush to her side and try to console her, but she just shakes them away, an icy-cold kind of hatred and determination in her eyes. Maysilee dashes the stage and I can't stop myself staring straight into her eyes despite my attempts to avert them.

Midnight dives into the usual post-reaping banter, asking Maysilee a bunch of random questions about her life and how she feels now that she knows she'll be going into the games. She just answers concisely, and I can't help but admire her tenacity. I already know she'll never let the cameras see her as weak.

Midnight approaches the girls' ball and draws a second name, and once more the square lapses into terrified silence, like glass that's under pressure and might shatter at the slightest touch.

"Valentina Silver!"

A younger girl's screams immediately pierce the silence, and two peacekeepers have grabbed her by either side before she can try to run. Valentina kicks and punches, but she's far too weak to overpower the peacekeepers and she finally resigns to her fate, crying softly to herself as the peacekeepers tug her to the stage.

After that it's time for the boys, and an even stronger wave of dread crashes into my throat, like poisonous acid building up in my stomach. Every part of my body feels far heavier than usual, like I'm on a planet with much stronger gravity. The square draws in a collective breath when Midnight draws the name of the first boy, and I'm praying and hoping and begging that it's not me, not me, not me.

"Steer Peterson!"

A boy mere meters to my left stamps his foot with frustration, then looks around at the staring faces and bolts to a ramrod straight position, as though trying to act as normal as possible, as though he can blend into the crowd so much he'll remain unseen. But he's already been noticed and it's hopeless to try and dodge his fate. Steer starts sadly to the stage. As he climbs the steps, he glances between Maysilee and Valentina, and something passes between their eyes like a mutual sadness that I can't put into words.

Midnight approaches the boys' bowl once more, and my heart rattles so loud I swear I can hear it. Blood thumps in my ears and something's weighing down on my chest.

I take a deep breath. The odds that that slip of paper contains my name are slim to none. In only a few minutes I'll be back home finishing my breakfast and talking to Mom. Tomorrow I'll go to school like normal.

"Haymitch Abernathy!"

My voice sounds weird through the speakers. For the first few seconds I'm completely still, having been punched in the gut by an invisible hand. Then the terror sets in, cold and squirming. No, no, no! How? Why? But there's no time for questions. My feet are moving ten seconds before my brain has time to catch up and before I know it I'm on the stage.

"I give you the tributes of District 12: Maysilee Donner, Valentina Silver, Steer Peterson, and Haymitch Abernathy! May the odds be ever in your favor!"

The sick thing is that a few people clap.


	3. Goodbyes and Silences

Midnight escorts us into the Justice Building, and before I know it two peacekeepers have grabbed me by either shoulder.

"Get… off… of… me," I choke out, trying to wiggle free.

"Calm down, kid," one of them shouts. Though his voice is muffled by his helmet I have no trouble making out his tone. Not a trace of kindness anywhere.

There are two rooms at the back of the Justice Building that are normally used as holding places for the tributes during the hour their loved ones can come and say goodbye. The thing is, with four tributes rather than two they've had to make a few alterations. The peacekeepers pull me down an obscure side hallway that's dark and lit by a single lightbulb. Dusty and flickering, of course, like everything else in District 12.

Just before the peacekeepers thrust me into the room, I catch a glimpse of something gold-colored. Maysilee Donner. It's a moment before I realize she's fighting back just like me, but in a different way. Maysilee stares at the peacekeepers holding her with the most poisonous gaze I've ever seen, sharper than daggers. A look that spells out a million different kinds of hatred. If someone stared at me like that I think I would piss myself on the spot.

The next two seconds pass in a blur. One of the two peacekeepers pulls away, and the one remaining practically tosses me onto a pristine yellow sofa. I land face-down on the smooth, shiny material. A loud banging sound echoes around the room, and the lock clicks.

Stomach churning, I walk to the door and turn the handle. It doesn't budge.

The first thing I notice when I turn around are the cameras. There must be at least twenty of them, though there are probably more I can't see. One in each of the four corners of the ceiling. One on top of the couch. One mounted into the coffee table.

The next thing I notice is the cookie machine in the corner. The memories flood back, and I almost feel submerged in that scene of five years ago.

* * *

I was eleven then, and we were in the middle of a unit about coal by-products. A then ten-year-old Carlo sat to my right. Valentina Silver was at the front of the class, admittedly very pretty despite how prissy and brash she could be. Then a knock came on the door and Ms. Rubina stopped in the middle of her sentence.

In District 12, knocks were never a good thing.

She called for the knocker to come in, and the school cook walked in with a plate covered in steaming hot cookies. I still remember the silence that enveloped the room then—a silence of disbelief, a silence of wonder at the heavenly display of culinary art that sat before us. The cook said something, but it was largely drowned out by the excited laugher of the kids, myself and Carlo included. I think she said it was a birthday present from Valentina's father, but it didn't matter. A line had been formed in two seconds and we ate the cookies carefully to keep from wasting a single crumb. Mine tasted like lemon.

* * *

The door burst open and somebody stumbles inside. Mom.

"Haymitch!" she shouts, her face red from tears. "You're… you're actually…"

"Yes, the Hunger Games," I say. "Let's face the good side of it all. I won't have to go to school on Monday."

"Just remember that ends always bring new beginnings," she says. "When one door closes, another door opens. Don't be…"

"I'm not afraid."

She smiles slightly. "Of course you're not. And I know you can make it home. I know it in here."

She puts her hand on her chest, and I don't mention that I'm up against 47 others who are equally pined on going home. That would just make a heavy situation even heavier.

* * *

When Mom leaves, Carlo staggers inside. Wearing the same clothes he wore at school yesterday. And the same grim expression.

"This isn't going to be easy, dude," he says.

"I know."

"Find water as soon as you can."

"I know."

"Don't trust the careers. Ever. They'll be more dangerous than ever this year."

"I know."

"And I think Maysilee likes you, by the way."

"I know."

* * *

Mr. Pick comes in next, and I can easily make out his features despite the layer of dark coal dust on his face, built up particularly deep in the crevices of age.

"Got a tribute token, son?" he asks.

"No," I say. "I never brought one to the reaping. Because I was never expecting to be…"

"Understandable," he says. "Nobody thinks it's going to happen to them. But it's important to remember that you're not getting out of this. Life dealt you a shit hand and now you'll have to play with it. I'm really sorry, Haymitch. I really am. Keep this on you while you're away."

When I see the object sitting in his open palm, my heart skips a beat. It's the locket I was going to give Esther, the locket I used to bribe that peacekeeper into letting me go.

"How did you get that?" I can hardly hear myself saying the words.

"It wasn't easy," Mr. Pick responds. "I had to give him ten whole loaves of bread and a day's wages before he handed it back to me. But I know how much it means to you and it was all worth it."

"Thanks!" I shout. The other three tributes might be able to hear me, but I don't care. "Thanks so much! Really, really, you're the best."

I tackle him in a bear hug. Like I'll die in an instant if I let go.

This man is officially my favorite in the entire universe.

"That's enough, son," he says. "I should probably be going, now."

* * *

After Mr. Pick leaves, the only person I can imagine coming to see me is Esther. I know a lot more people than just my four closest friends, but from my experience people tend to avoid the goodbyes unless the tribute is super close to them because they don't like getting any more involved with the Capitol than they have to. Which is understandable.

"Haymitch! Cutie pie!" I recognize her voice before I even see her.

"Esther. Sorry about yesterday, I was just…"

"Never mind yesterday. You're going into the freaking Hunger Games! We need one last romantic kiss!"

"I already told you, we broke up."

"You'll have plenty of time to snog that Maysilee girl in the arena. I might never see you again!"

She pulls me in for a kiss and it's hard to admit that I feel literally nothing inside. The awkwardness is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"Well, good luck!" she says as the peacekeepers pull her away. "And remember what you've got to go home to!"

No more visitors come after that. I just lie back on the couch and close my eyes, savoring the long, sweet grace note of silence.


End file.
